


crushcrushcrush!!

by Fluffifullness



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Accidents, Durarara!! Kink Meme, Guilt, M/M, Murder, Panic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffifullness/pseuds/Fluffifullness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His human love is an obsession, commanding like blood-slicked fingers slipping, pinched together just to hear the sound and they’re red and the more he stares at them the redder they seem to get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	crushcrushcrush!!

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the _Durarara!!_ kink meme - the original prompt is [here](http://drrrkink.livejournal.com/6253.html?thread=22733933#t22733933). This one wound up being a lot harder to write than I'd honestly expected it to be. ^^;
> 
>   
>  Also, I was trying to think of a title, came up with this - and then realized that it sounded awfully familiar. So, yeah, it's a song (or maybe an album...) by the band Paramore. Which makes the title not-mine, like _Durarara!!_  
> 

Orihara Izaya’s always been one for double standards. Case in point: he knows many, many things about the humans living all over his city, but he doesn’t permit them to know any of his own truths. He craves spontaneity but revels in carefully plotting things out for himself. He loves humans in all stages of life, but they’re no good to him dead, unresponsive, comatose. He loves and wants to be loved but doesn’t care for the love of any individual – his ideal attraction being, of course, that of a collective.

Humanity.

His human love is an obsession, commanding like blood-slicked fingers slipping, pinched together just to hear the sound and they’re red and the more he stares at them the redder they seem to get.

He doesn’t want to die, but he’s gone and done the one thing he never planned on doing.

He’s taken a human life – not indirectly, impersonally, but with his own two hands.

**~*~**

“Fuck,” Shizuo growls matter-of-factly to the intermittent weeds sprouting up from the sidewalk. He doesn’t have a solid reason for the expletive and doesn’t feel that he needs one – just pissed off, ‘cause what the hell is it with the air in Shinjuku, the incredible stench of he has a good idea who, and what the hell is the point in having him come out here alone on what could’ve been a day off? He’s not great with directions, anyway, so all he can really do is hope that this client’s apartment shows up practically on its own.

That’s basically his strategy in a nutshell – hell with maps and addresses, anyway – and when he hears the thump of something like a barely-stuffed pillow hitting pavement, that strategy demands that he approach the nearest alleyway to possibly find his ‘target’ responsible for it. He doesn’t walk quietly, per se, but he nevertheless makes kind of an effort to go unnoticed as he reaches the jut of brick and mortar, rounds the corner and barely avoids stumbling over a flimsy aluminum trashcan as his feet connect with bits of gravel and glass.

He notices something.

Shinjuku reeks anyway, but this place – it’s a lot worse, and Shizuo’s sure that it’s not because of the unnoticed bagfuls of garbage littering the ground.

Of course, he knows exactly what’s causing the smell; he’s familiar with it, after all, and it wouldn’t be strange for him to meet that little bastard around here, anyway.

He calls his name, drawing out the syllables and raising his voice with every additional step forward into the gloom of the alleyway. He can see him, now – sans the furry coat he seems to love so much – and by the time he’s noticed Shizuo, it’s far too late for him to do much but stand and wait for him.

Shizuo’s fist swallows the front of Izaya’s shirt and then directs his entire body into the nearest wall. The flea winces a little and brings his hands up to clasp them about Shizuo’s fist, but he never loses that know-it-all smirk.

“My, my, Shizu-chan,” the informant croons, “you do know that this isn’t Ikebukuro, don’t you?”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Shizuo growls with a little grin of his own. “I can still beat you to a pulp.”

Izaya’s responsive laughter turns to a long sigh, and maybe it’s because he’d usually be flushed after a long chase, but Shizuo can’t help thinking that the flea’s looking a little too pale, even for him.

He waits.

“…Not gonna fight back?”

Izaya swallows painfully and has to breathe fast and hard to make up for the lost seconds of Shizuo’s palm stealing air from his lungs. “I – ah, not really, Shizu-chan. Do your worst, ne?”

Shizuo’s frown deepens. He doesn’t like that, to be honest, because if Izaya’s so entirely willing to be turned into a red stain then he must be plotting something. Must have cops coming, or maybe something else – another of his fucking plans, always trying to use Shizuo like a tool – well, fuck if Shizuo’s just gonna sit back and let him.

“Fine,” he growls, opening his fist so that Izaya crumples to the ground in front of him. The informant’s eyes go wide only to narrow-almost-close just heartbeats later. He starts to open his mouth to say something, but Shizuo settles onto his haunches and holds a silencing finger to Izaya’s lips. “Know what? We can stay here as long as it takes for you to tell me what the hell you’re up to.”

“I live nearby,” Izaya says with a little smile, “and I was just about to go shopping for groceries at this convenience store – you know, milk and things, they’ve got it all – when this frightening monster attacked me out of nowhere – can you believe that?” He laughs breathlessly.

Shizuo grits his teeth, willing himself not to give in to the urge to sink his fist into Izaya’s face – then notices the slight trembling in Izaya’s arms and legs, the thin sheen of sweat and he leans closer to study him more in earnest.

“What, you scared?”

“Would you consider leaving me alone if I said yes?”

“Hell no,” Shizuo grunts, and reaches over to lift Izaya up by the cuff of his shirt.

“Shizu-chan – hey, let go!”

The flea tugs at Shizuo’s hands and glares balefully up at him, but that doesn’t keep Shizuo from glancing around, up and down the alley, and – wait – “What’s that?” he mutters to himself, taking one and then another step forward as Izaya goes still beside him.

There’s a shapeless lump farther down, back where the light is especially dim and a surprise wall cuts the passage short rather than allowing it to open onto another street. It might be the ‘pillow’ from before, but Shizuo doubts that he’d have heard it hit the ground, as far as it is from the sidewalk and all. It’s too big, anyway, and he has another feeling.

If he had to put a name to it, he’d probably call it a sense of foreboding.

“Go back,” Izaya whispers, “please – _Shizu-chan –”_

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls.

“Y-you wanted me to tell you,” Izaya breathes. “Put me down and stop walking for just five seconds, and I might –”

Shizuo does stop – abruptly enough to startle the informant into renewed silence – but he doesn’t let Izaya go. “…Why don’t you just use one of those knives of yours to _make me?”_

“I – I only brought _one_ out with –”

He claps a hand to his mouth, carmine eyes wide and panicked.

Right, because the flea usually keeps knives – and, yeah, usually more than just one – tucked away in the pockets and sleeves of his jacket. Hell, he pretty much wears that thing everywhere with him – everywhere in Ikebukuro, anyway – and the way he looks now… like a scared kid, or –

– or one with a guilty conscience.

Shizuo’s good at feigning ignorance, though, and of course he’d rather not have to believe what he’s starting to think. He sighs, brings Izaya’s face to within just centimeters of his own and locks their gazes together. His words are heavy with the weight of the other question he wants to ask but won’t.

“So? Scared I’ll take it from you?”

Izaya shakes his head mutely.

“Scared of what, then, Izaya?”

That’s definitely a closer approximation, and the informant winces, eyes fluttering entirely shut for just a moment and then he opens them again and chews lightly on the corner of his lower lip – “Right now? You.”

“Because I’m going to learn something you don’t want anyone knowing,” Shizuo states, blunt-as-you-please.

A bead of blood finally wells up from the spot of skin that Izaya’s been worrying with his teeth; he lets go, looks down. “It was an accident,” he murmurs.

It’s Shizuo’s turn to go wide-eyed. “You mean… you actually…?”

The shaking returns full-force.

“Y-yeah, I…”

“Killed…”

“Don’t – don’t say it like that,” Izaya groans. “Just don’t say _anything,_ Shizu-chan.”

“The fuck? ‘Don’t say anything?’ You’re telling me you _killed someone,_ flea!” To emphasize his point, Shizuo gestures at the still form – dark, death-scented, head and sprawling limbs barely visible and finally recognizable from where the two are standing now. “Who is that, huh?! Just some guy?!”

“No, Shizu-chan, he –”

“What, thought it’d be fun to see someone die? And now you have the nerve to be _upset_ about it – and you call _me_ a monster!”

Izaya reaches up to tug weakly at Shizuo’s hand again, but no luck. Shizuo shakes him hard like a misbehaving dog, shouts more and Izaya’s eyes are wide and scared and desperate to deny but every parting of his lips only prompts more insults, more enraged accusations.

Shizuo can’t help it, and if he could he wouldn’t bother. He _hates_ violence, and maybe that makes him some kinda hypocrite but at least he tries to avoid it. At least he’s never killed anyone, and if he did he’d never do anything as stupid as running away from the reality of it.

“…turn yourself in, you fucking bastard – and I guess that sound before was you throwing stuff away, huh, after washing the blood off –”

“Yeah, it was!” Izaya hisses, and Shizuo finally stops when he notices tears glinting at the corners of Izaya’s eyes. “It _was,_ Shizu-chan, and it’s not as though doing something stupid like leaving it right here with that – _corpse_ would do me any good, anyway! Do you actually understand any of this, you – you –” He groans softly, face turned to the side in a vain attempt at hiding full-blown despair.

“I honestly don’t know anymore, Shizu-chan. I can’t even think straight, so if you want to drag me off somewhere, be my guest. It’s not as if I can hope to do anything about it, anyway.”

Shizuo quiets, breathes slow and steady and reluctantly lowers Izaya to his feet.

“Explain,” he demands, “from the start.”

**~*~**

Heiwajima Shizuo.

Of course, Shizuo. Why not him? Izaya’s always liked to see himself as a being above silly human emotions like guilt and fear. Panic. It doesn’t make him more or less human, either, and he’s not an idiot – he knows he’s not a god. He’s a human with great aspirations, special capabilities – but murderers are a special kind of monster. They’re like Shizuo, but to the best of Izaya’s knowledge even that brute’s never actually ended any lives.

What Izaya feels then is something very, dangerously close to guilt _and_ panic _and_ fear and seeing Shizuo in the flesh only muddles him further.

“Explain,” he says, and Izaya does. He doesn’t expect the truth to set him free or anything as convenient as that, but Shizuo’s persistent and Izaya’s beside himself.

The meeting with a client, and just to annoy Shizuo he provides loads of not-helpful background information. His case, his motives and personality. The way his eyes glinted sometimes, dead-giveaway determination and something a little more sadistic.

Shizuo shifts his weight uncomfortably, but his gaze never leaves Izaya’s face and Izaya never stops talking.

Said client revealing his intentions much too far in advance, underestimating Izaya’s own preparedness, the just-in-case knife he always has on him, and isn’t it ridiculous, Shizu-chan, to think that a single human with a useless grudge could actually kill me that easily?

He’d been honored, though, really, and had only meant to warn the man away with a cut here and there, maybe some bruises.

Of course he went a little too far, blacked out or something and then there was the warmth on his hands, drip-drip-dripping and the man was dead and cooling fast. His eyes open – Izaya left them that way, cleaned the blood and his knife and dropped both behind a pile of old newspapers and rubble.

“And then you showed up, Shizu-chan, and now I suppose you’re about ready to” – he shivers in spite of himself, hands drawing tight about his upper arms – “to go – we should hurry, though – I don’t know if I can” – blinks once, vision blurring and there’s something warm and heavy supporting his chest, wrapped all the way under his arms – “can’t…”

He _can’t._

**~*~**

Shizuo catches Izaya in his dead faint just by force of reflex, but it’s something far less automatic that prevents him from dropping him immediately after that. He’d love to, of course, and then he’d leave the bastard where he lies and wait to hear the news.

Orihara Izaya, twenty-five, murderer. The ring’s not nice, but it’s not exactly supposed to look good on anyone, anyway.

It’ll be the end for him. An exposed informant is a failed one, and Shizuo knows just as well as Izaya probably does that there are plenty of other candidates for his position in this city.

He won’t even have to be convicted – given a bit of media coverage, even Izaya’ll have a hard time covering everything up. He’s indirectly aided a lot of people in a lot of criminal efforts, after all, and faces printed in newspapers have a way of making people talk. You can’t hide a face steeped in infamy – no undercovering, no lurking and selective secret-telling.

It’s magic that erases every hint of invisibility.

Shizuo pauses partway through lowering the informant’s limp body to the ground at his feet.

Because is it right – really, really right?

Izaya’s a deceitful bastard and he’s seriously fucked up this time and _hell yes_ he should face the consequences in all their bitter glory – but he’s unguarded, too, and maybe he went a little _(much)_ too far but in the end it could still be boiled down to something as simple as self-defense.

Never mind that one guy might not be just one guy, not given Izaya’s job and the people he deals with. Shizuo wonders if this stranger – still unseen, crumpled and blood-soaked like Izaya’s faintly-red hands – ever thought to hire himself some reinforcements. Yakuza, maybe, or even a bunch of no-name gangsters. It’s not unlikely, while – hell, the alternative kinda is.

He wonders if law enforcement would try hard enough to protect the flea given that possibility, if he’d survive all the way through a trial and then what might happen to him in jail, were that to become his final destination in this not-quite-hypothetical story.

Not because there’s danger, really, but because Izaya’s shown a hint of weakness that’s quickly widening into a chasm of doubt for both of them.

Shizuo has to wonder, and because he has to wonder he does something really, _really_ stupid.

He takes Izaya home with him.

**~*~**

Izaya opens his eyes to warm, dim light and a throbbing headache. He’s immediately sure that he must be lying in his own apartment, and he’s just getting ready to explain the new layout when he realizes that this _isn’t_ his apartment at all, but a police station – sure, ‘cause that would at least explain the couch. Maybe.

It would explain the blood, which he remembers. The tiny bursts of pain here and there and the being yelled at.

It wouldn’t, however, explain Shizu-chan, dark countenance and a hot cup of tea grudgingly held out by way of offering.

“Remember?” he wonders, and Izaya nods. “Great. Drink that and keep your annoying mouth shut. I don’t wanna hear a damn word you’ve got to say right now.”

Izaya cocks his head to one side, takes the tea and takes a sip. Breathes once, twice. “What –?”

Shizuo gives him a warning look, and if that alone isn’t good enough for Izaya then the sharp crack of the blonde’s own mugful of tea shattering in his closed fist definitely is.

Shizuo hisses irritably, stumbles to his feet and drops what’s left of the yellow ceramic thing – its handle, the hot tea dripping onto his pants and the couch opposite Izaya’s.

And now the floor.

Izaya chuckles in spite of himself.

 _“Izaya,”_ Shizuo snarls at him, and Izaya groggily remembers his earlier treatment. His shirt’s pretty well ruined thanks to Shizuo’s stretching it out, and he’s got extra bruises to show for their little exchange.

Well, great. He cringes, even squeezes his eyes shut, expecting muscle-bound hands to close on his neck or his hands or something, but there’s nothing. When he opens his eyes, there’s Shizu-chan, close, leaning far over him with his trademark sunglasses conspicuously missing from the bridge of his nose.

“I shouldn’t’ve helped you,” he mutters, pulling away after a long moment.

“Why, then?”

“You needed it,” Shizuo mumbles. “I guess.”

Izaya waits for another indication that he should keep quiet, but none comes.

“That’s a terrible reason,” he sighs. “I do have a few connections, you know. People in high places.”

(Not that he hasn’t worried about _other_ problems, of course, the ones with which those people can’t or won’t help him.)

Shizuo twitches. Hadn’t thought of that, apparently.

 _“I_ don’t,” he mutters, as if he’s just started to realize how dire his own situation is.

“Well – I wonder what you’ll do about that. You’ve gone and made yourself an accessory and all...”

Shizuo’s eyes narrow – _so readable, Shizu-chan_ – and he lets his breath go slowly. “Fine,” he breathes. “Fine, whatever, then. Worrying about trash like you really is a waste.”

He straightens himself out, towers over Izaya with a very-pissed-off frown solidly in place. “You’re pathetic, you know?”

Izaya shivers. He doesn’t like the look Shizuo’s giving him, like he really, honestly pities him. Like Izaya is someone who deserves to be pitied. Like Izaya is the one who doesn’t know which way is up.

“Stop it,” he hisses.

“Stop what? Stop helping you? Don’t worry, flea – I plan to.”

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his cell phone and fixes Izaya with a dare-me-to-do-it stare. His finger pauses expectantly on the ‘1.’

Izaya feels his mouth go dry. “Don’t.”

Shizuo pushes the button, once. Raises an eyebrow at Izaya, who can feel himself losing it _and fast._

The second beep is louder than the first.

“Shizu-chan – Shizuo – _don’t.”_

“Why not?” Shizuo wonders. “Because you’re still scared? Scared enough to sit there like a fucking king – like you’re not really a part of any of this, huh, like you’re not _so fucking relieved_ that I brought you here instead of leaving you to wake up to prison or some dead body” – Izaya cringes, shoves himself to his feet and stumbles closer to Shizuo with his finger now poised on zero – and Shizuo’s still talking but he hears none of it, opens his mouth and lets the words go like a flood all his own.

“Shizu-chan,” he whisper-sobs, “it’s because you showed up, that’s all.”

Shizuo doesn’t hit that last button. He waits.

“I don’t _know,”_ he groans. “I don’t – and you had to go and help me. And why? Because I _needed_ it?”

He laughs.

“That doesn’t make any damn sense, you know – and the tea” – how can tea made by Shizu-chan be so delicious, anyway? – “and now you’re all pissed off just because I’m the way I’ve always been –”

Shizuo interrupts. “You’re not. You’re different. That’s why.”

“Because this kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen,” Izaya explains to the smooth dark of Shizuo’s coffee table. “Because it’s like you’re more human than I am now. I hate that.”

Shizuo chuckles. “That’s it, huh? Not because you feel _bad_ … or anything?”

“I don’t know what I feel,” Izaya snaps, but he softens again and fast. “Guilt’s something of a foreign concept to me, you know. It _might_ be that – maybe not exactly the way you feel it, of course,” he admits, and yes, that’s him seeing Shizuo as in some way normal, human, “but yeah, this could be something like guilt, I suppose.”

He feels a sort of fear, too, and certainly confused – lost, even. He tells that to Shizuo because Shizuo may be one of very few people willing to hear him out now. That he’s panicking still, that for the time being the last thing he wants is to leave his enemy’s apartment.

Shizuo’s gaze turns pitying again, and Izaya hates it hates it hates it but more than that he hates Shizuo himself. He hates the desperate, rushing crush of Shizuo’s lips on his own, his hands drawing a low moan from Izaya, drawing a circle about his struggling form and coming to rest rough and eager on his shoulders.

“Murderer,” Shizuo whispers, and Izaya caves – into the label, into the heat of Shizuo’s chest and his unsympathetic, unsentimental touch.

**Author's Note:**

> By the way: the emergency call number (for the police, at least) in Tokyo is 110 - hence the numbers that Shizuo starts to dial while he's talking to Izaya.


End file.
